


the thought of it (makes you feel a bit ill.)

by Lo Turner-Kane (doujinbag)



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: AL DATES EVERYONE IN THE TAGS, Angry Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, POV First Person, but i didnt want to list them, idk what else to tag this as oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doujinbag/pseuds/Lo%20Turner-Kane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex sees love in many different memories, many different splashes of colour.</p><p>His mind keeps coming back to one person in particular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the thought of it (makes you feel a bit ill.)

**Author's Note:**

> The quote at the beginning is one of my favourite quotes in the entire world and I was thinking and dwelling over it for a lonnngg time.
> 
> And then this happened.
> 
> I'm not sure how else to introduce you all to this so, um, yeah.

_“There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an imagine in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open […] and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark innerside of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face, a little ghost in natural colors[.]”_ – **Vladimir Nabokov, _Lolita_**

-

I still remember the way his eyes glimmered the first time they laid themselves upon me. His mouth didn’t move at all, his body frozen in place, but he did all the talking he needed to with those simple dashes of hazel flickering back and forth.

His shirt was red, the sky was blue, and my eyes were bright and curious.

We both skipped proper introductions for the first few months; we didn’t need them, we were known to each other already.

He kissed me under the sunny sky one summer morning and broke away giggling, as did I, and traced shapes on my arm for the rest of the day.

He never knew it, but I was in love with him from that moment on.

-

I still remember the way I bumped into her for the first time at a hole-in-the-wall gig in London. She’d giggled and apologized for being such a klutz, dark hair flying around her oddly fitted face, and I couldn’t help but put my hand on her waist to assure she wouldn’t fall again.

Her dress was green, the venue was dark, and my laugh turned to red-yellow-blue primary colours in a matter of time.

I first kissed her in the dim lighting of a library during a storm and broke away gasping. She smiled and told me it was more than all right, but I knew that it wasn’t.

She never knew it, but the only name that was on my mind wasn’t hers.

-

I still remember the way I went for a handshake and he instead went for a hug. He bought me a beer, we sat down at the kind of barstools that have twisty seats, and he asked me how I’d been since we’d last seen one another.

Our last meeting hadn’t ended on a sour note, no, but I’m sure that seeing me in the tabloids holding hands with Johanna wasn’t his cup of tea.

The foam on his drink was white, his smile was red, and my heart was burning the colour of melting iron.

He kissed me by my car door and wished me a safe goodnight, and I was desperate to tell him to never ever break away again.

He never knew it, but I cried when I couldn’t have him to myself that night.

-

I still remember the way I mistook her for an old friend of mine, even spilled a dash of espresso over her blouse, but she hadn’t seemed to care. “It happens,” she’d said softly, gentle reassurance in her voice. She was about as good with technology as I was (later turned to write a book entirely in email rather than Word, you know) and tended to laugh at all my jokes.

Her lips were pink, the night was grey, and my eyes were afraid.

She kissed me when I told her she should try and be mine, and accepted the invitation quite gladly, fingers immediately intertwining.

She never knew it, but her laugh was only my muse because for a second, I could forget all about him.

-

I still remember the way his teeth showed unwillingly when he smiled at the sight of me on his doorstep. I’d just broken it off with Alexa after four long years of trying to find something she couldn’t offer me despite how lovely her existence was; a new album was about to be let loose and I wasn’t ready for all that was bound to come with it.

His flat was brown, Lennon’s voice on his record player carried a neon green feeling about it, and my hands were trembling perhaps more than he’d ever seen them tremble before.

I asked him how somebody ever gets over heartbreak and he made me a cup of tea in response, asking me if I still loved Alexa. Telling me it’d take a bit to get past her name, her voice, but soon I’d find my own rhythm again.

I kissed him quickly that night when it seemed he wouldn’t shut up about _Lexa, Lexa, Lexa,_ and he couldn’t do anything but sit there and take it.

I never told him that my heartbreak had nothing to do with a model and everything to do with him.

-

I still remember laughing at a joke I didn’t understand and drinking down all the coffee she’d made me, although I hated every drop of it. Something about her felt oddly electric yet oddly forced, but I was in it for the legs and she was in it for the money. We had nothing to lose.

Her lips were crimson, my eyes were dark, and everything about us felt heavyheavyheavy like the dark blue screen you’re greeted with when everything in a computer system just goes all wrong.

Neither of us truly desired anything in one another other than the good lays or the stacks of cash I could sleep on at night, but I tried not to mind it.

The last time I kissed her, she laughed and pushed me away and walked away with a sway in her step towards another bloke that was taller than me.

I never told her that she could never break my heart when it wasn’t even pieced together in the first place.

-

I still remember retching in disgust as I walked offstage for the last time that night, the name _Arabella_ sticking to the roof of my mouth in the worst of ways. He greeted me with open arms and told me I’d done great. “Don’t worry about that damned song,” he’d whispered to me. “I’m sure hardly anybody knows it’s about her anyways.”

He was wrong, but I couldn’t bother correcting him.

His arms were tan, the night was black, and the summer heat made everything about us feel like a disgusting shade of thick orange.

I kissed him when he told me he missed me and he refused to let us break away. My dressing room was finally put to good use that night, and I’m sure that the rest of my mates were beyond annoyed at the sounds of my mewls and moans from behind that thin door. I didn’t care. I couldn’t get enough of him.

I never told him to _please, please, stay,_ don’t leave me, don’t let me go quite yet.

-

I still remember the way all the fans screamed in exaggerated caps lock metaphors at the first photo of her with me. Some hated her just as much as I wanted to, others rushed to her defense, claiming I was happy with her so just leave me _alone._

It was a kind gesture, but so very wrong.

Her hair was blonde-pink-blonde-brown, my face was grey, and everything about us felt out of place.

Perhaps the worst was that he encouraged it. He lit our ciggies for us, patted us on the back for being such a beautiful couple, danced with both of us at every concert we went to. His pinstriped suits and unshaven face couldn’t hide his hidden truths from me, though.

I kissed her when the cameras were on us and screamed out my bedroom window when she wasn’t there. I cried for the man I wasn’t allowed to have and punched walls because it was the next best thing to punching my very self.

I never told her to stay away and leave me be in my alcohol-laden sorrows until it was far too late.

-

I still remember the way he screamed at me for the very first time.

By the time that day came, we’d made love countless times behind all my girlfriends’ backs, shared cigarettes under the whiteblue Paris moon, gotten high on every beach in the States, played the same rendition of _505_ in technicolour lights until it no longer felt lovely and simply felt sickeningly mandatory.

His face was hot, my body was burning, the room was sent to hellflames, and everything about the scene was scarletcrimsonbloodfire **red.**

“It’s about all these _girls,”_ he shouted, his fist clenching around his glass champagne flute (not for champagne, never for that; he simply liked feeling better about his newly developed vodka habit). “Always about these fucking _girls_ that you write your tunes for and tell me all about and expect me to applaud you over. All these fucking _girls!”_

In one hot, quick flash, there was the sound of glass shattering and the champagne flute was a flute no longer, but instead a pile of pent-up anger lying on the floor against the far wall.

I kissed him when I could see no other solution to our problem, but he shoved me back with strong hands and angry breath. He didn’t want my kisses any longer. He couldn’t stand the lies.

He, too, had loved me since our first sunny kiss in the grassy fields of my hometown. He, too, had kissedtouchedfucked girls in some failed attempt to find my blood pumping through their veins. He, too, could not rid himself of the sickness that was my love and refused to let himself live it down.

I apologized very profusely for the first time in my life that night, and suddenly, I was telling him everything. Everything I wanted to say to Johanna, to Alexa, to Arielle, to Taylor, it all came out in one blur.

And suddenly, I realized, I never wanted to say these things to those girls at all. They’d always been meant for him to hear, always stored away for a later day. _This_ was my later day.

He pushed me down on the settee and tore every piece of clothing off my body like a ravenous animal, and I simply let him do as he pleased.

As _I_ pleased, too; I couldn’t let him take all the credit for things we both wanted.

We continued shouting at each other between kisses, between hickeys, between moans and pleads and thrusts. My entire body was on fire not only for orgasmic reasons but for emotional ones as well.

Our love had been feasted in happiness and was now growing out of anger, out of unrequited needs, out of confessions and sex and glory and _finally_ achieving what we’d both strived for for so long.

When it was all said and done, he held me very tightly and whispered in my ear the words I’d been dying to hear all these years. _“I love you.”_

This time, I didn’t hold back from telling him anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://spookymileskane.tumblr.com) / [instagram](http://instagr.am/and.a.smile)


End file.
